


bone, stone, and rust

by nohatoclato



Series: all thoughts prey to some beast [1]
Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternative Universe - Victorian Gothic, Anachronistic curse words, Gen, Psychic!Ryan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-05-25 20:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14984981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nohatoclato/pseuds/nohatoclato
Summary: Ryan is a man with a gift. Shane is a man with nothing to lose. Together, they investigate the dark and all it’s unsolved mysteries.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> haven’t decided if I want this to be romantic or not.

Ryan wondered if his ghost would haunt these halls, if he leaned out far enough to fall from the townhouse window. Not enough to _want_ to do it, though, so he tightened his grip on the ledge of the third story window.

 

A hand landed on his shoulder. Fingers sprinkled with hair and spots of age.

 

“Sir!” A man called right into his ear. “Can you help her?”

 

Ryan reluctantly looked over his shoulder, at Mr. Brewer. _I don’t think that I can,_ he wanted to say.

 

Ryan addressed him tersely. “I simply don’t know if I can.”

 

The man looked crestfallen, and Ryan felt pitiful. “Why not?”

 

And Ryan pointed beyond the man’s shoulder at the catastrophic scene. “Because your daughter is floating, sir.”

 

His daughter was, indeed, floating on the ceiling, belly up, but spine curved downward. Her limbs dangled to the floor, arms ending in hands that looked like the paws of a great beast. The back of her head was thrown so far back that it was practically touching her spine. She muttered something dark and ominous in Latin - or Russian, something so hard, and eerie that it sent chills up and down Ryan’s spine.

 

“I thought you were an expert at this?” The man asked.

 

“Not whatever the hell this is.” Ryan shook his head, the movement triggering more head pain.

 

The man’s face softened, eyes glazed and shiny with tears. He looked truly fearful, and Ryan felt for him. But he felt for himself, as well.

 

“Please.” The man begged. “Sir, please. No one else has been able to help her.”

 

Ryan’s hand hovered inches above the window pane, pondering the decision, the possibility of falling prey to something beyond his realm of abilities. But, at heart, he watned to help, more than anything. He would’ve like very much to help the man, and his daughter.

 

He pushed past the man, and Steven, ignoring the fact that he didn’t truly know how.

 

“Well.” Ryan sighed, reaching into the inner layers of his shirt where his golden cross necklace resided, close to his chest, his heart. A sigil of protection. “I suppose this might help.”

 

Steven ran out of the room, _to get the holy water,_ he called, probably an excuse to escape whatever waited Ryan when he said the special words.

 

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” He murmured, forming the shape of the cross with his hands.

 

The form of the woman hovering in the air shivered, at first, Ryan believed the wind had blown into the room, and caused the wooden floorboards to creak and groan, but he soon understood that was her making the noise, so animalistic.

 

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” Ryan said a bit louder, now that he knew it has started some kind of reaction. Each movement of his jaw triggering more head pain. “I command you, spirit, be gone!”

 

The groaning grew louder, more shrill, the shivering becoming a jerking, the girl’s head bobbing, her eyes wide. Furniture around the room creaking in their places, some starting to fall. The windows opened and shut.

 

The girl’s father, cowered in the corner, whimpering loudly.

 

“Spirit!” Ryan shouted. His voice creaked like the wooden panes in the room. “I command you! Be gone.”

 

The girl let out a blood curdling shriek, body jerking from side to side. Around her, the air started to flicker and strobe, smelling bitter like blood or iron. Ryan’s head aching more and more, the room filling with wind, the wind stirring up dust, he had to sneeze so badly, and the dust wasn’t helping, and neither was the headache.

 

Steven ran in with the flask, tossed it into Ryan’s hands from across the room, stared up at the sight in awe.

 

“Spirit!” Ryan twisted open the flask, flicked some in front of him. “In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit, I command you, to return from whence you came!”

 

The girl floated further from the ground, her screaming and wailing reaching a deafening volume. He walked toward her, holding the golden cross up, confidence rising and falling equally, frequently with each step.

 

The girls body suddenly tossed from left and right, her screaming turning into choking, her body rolling, the furniture starting to shake more violently to match.

 

“Lord above!” Her father exclaimed from behind.

 

Ryan was afraid this wasn’t any of His doing. “Spirit! Be gone!”

 

The girl gave a series of violent trembles, blue wisps of what seemed to be dust or smoke rising from her body from the tips of her fingers and her nostrils and her mouth, and she collapsed to the wooden floor with a loud thud that caused Steven to jump feet into the air with a whimper.

 

“Christ.” He exclaimed.

 

The spirit fled from her body, it’s black, contorted form bouncing from wall to wall, past Ryan, it’s shriek like that of a thousand voices at once, filling everyone in the room with sour and cold and all bad things. It rushed at him, and his headache rose to a mighty stabbing behind his eyes. He was starting to see spots, it’s anger and the smell of iron filled the room, before it fled through the window.

 

The room was silent once more, everyone catching their breath. Then, Mr. Brewer ran to his quivering daughter and Steven ran to the window and slammed it shut. He turned to face Ryan with a grin.

 

“You’ve saved her!”

 

Ryan nodded once, with a relieved smile, then his vision went black and he fell to the floor.

 

He awoke to Steven, fanning his face quite incompetently, with the pages of a thin book.

 

“Don’t try to speak.” He whispered to Ryan.

 

Ryan’s eyes drifted to the handsome chandelier dangling from the ceiling, crystals dangling under the flame of the candles. He sat up, pushing Steven’s hand out of the way. His vest was unbuttoned, a blanket thrown unceremoniously over his legs. They were in the Brewer family sitting room. Books lined the shelves. A great, beautiful wooden desk sat in the corner. Staff moved about them, unconcerned with the two men lying on the chaise lounge chair.

 

“You took a fall.” Steven tried to explain, before Ryan threw his hand up to stop him.

 

“Yes, I gathered that.”

 

His legs were weak with lack of use.

 

“How long?”

 

“Hours, Ryan.” Steven said. “I was afraid you would never wake up. You didn’t stir for ages.”

 

Ryan whipped his head around to the window. Indeed, it was nightfall, and he hadn’t even realized. His headache had, blessedly faded, and he could feel the hollow space where it once was.

 

Mr. Brewer came around the corner with a skip in his step, face puffy and tearstained, but looking undeniably unburdened.

 

“You’ve saved her, Mr. Bergara.” He said, holding his arms out to Ryan.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Emily. She’s resting soundly in her bed, free from troublesome spirits.”

 

“Oh, yes.” Ryan coughed. “I’m so glad to have been of assistance.”

 

Mr. Brewer knelt by the chaise, Steven moving over to make room for him. “More than assistance, gracious Sir. Your gift is of the Almighty himself. You are truly doing His work.”

 

“I should hope so.” Ryan shook the man’s outstretched hand.

 

“How can I repay you?” Mr. Brewer asked.

 

“Money.” Steven replied, quickly.

 

Ryan hit his shoulder with the back of his hand. _Rude,_ he mouthed. He looked at Mr. Brewer, “He’s right though.”

 

“Of course,” Mr. Brewer replied, rising to go to his desk. “I would never assume that you could possibly do this for free. What a taxing role to play, and your gift, such a curse.”

 

Ryan nodded, his face practically buzzing from exhaustion.

 

Mr. Brewer handed him the check looking upon him warmly. “Again, I must thank you for what you’ve done here. You’ve truly healed this house.”

 

Ryan smiled kindly. “I’m only grateful for the ability to.”

 

Steven coughed. “We might need something else, too.”

 

Mr. Brewer stared. “Anything.”

 

They travelled by Mr. Brewer’s personal coach and driver, passing a bottle of sherry between them. Ryan was more than happy to leave the house and negative energies behind him. He had slept for so long, but was still exhausted, with the kind of tired that only a century of sleep could cure.

 

“You did great.” Steven assured him, though Ryan didn’t really ask.

 

“Thank you.” Ryan slurred, downing the last sip of sherry.

 

The driver dropped them off at his narrow house, Steven getting out to help a drunken Ryan out of the cab.

 

“I can do it,” He slurred, pushing his hands off, and stumbling to the front door. “Fuck you.”

 

Steven stepped back, letting Ryan push on ahead of him. “Fuck you, too, then!”

 

From the front door, all the way upstairs, Ryan’s vision blacked out, somehow he ended up in bed with his pajamas on, the pillow cool against his face.

  
Then he woke up with the sun shining directly in his eyes, his head ruddy and pounding. Whomever had dressed him in his nightshirt, Ryan knew not.

 

He stumbled out of bed, moving drunkenly around the house staff.

 

His mother and Steven were enjoying their breakfast (lunch?) at the long table. His mother smiled at him, but sadly, like she knew something that he didn’t.

 

Already on edge, Ryan sat down. The house staff bustled by him, placed his napkin onto his lap, and his plate in front of him.

 

“I can do it myself,” he said, gruffly, though each word he spoke caused bouts of pain behind his eyes. The staff retreated, wordlessly. “Mother.”

 

“Ryan.” His mother said, glancing nervously at him, and then at Steven. “We’ve been talking.”

 

Ryan couldn’t hear her over the slurping of his soup. “What?”

 

“I said,” she repeated, “That we’ve been talking.”

 

“Who’s we?”

 

“Steven and I,” she explained.

 

But Steven hunched over his bowl, to avoid Ryan’s eyes. Something was going on, fear filled his stomach, hot like the soup he was trying to eat.

 

“And what have you been talking about?”

 

“We think- and I’ve been consulting with Steven about this- we think that it would do you best to have some sort of companion on your visits.” She looks to Steve for assistance.

 

Ryan squints at him. “Oh, Steven thinks that, does he?”

 

“Yes.” His mother replies.

 

“Mother, I already have a companion. Or,” He said. “I _thought_ that I did.”

 

Steven blushed, his apologetic look almost making Ryan regret what he said. Almost. He was still bitter that they’d conspired against him like criminals. He had no doubt that this was his mother’s doing. If he had known, he never would’ve gone along with it.

 

He vainly tried to catch Steven’s gaze, maybe for the thrill of making him attempt to hunch over even further. He was, truth be told, thinking deeply.

 

“Who are you going to employ?” Ryan mused, raising his soup spoon to his lips. “This...line of work isn’t particularly in high demand. I imagine you shall be hard pressed to find someone who is drawn to bedlam of the world of the Supernatural. I know Steven wasn’t.”

 

“That’s true.” Steven allowed, looking up to stare deeply into Ryan’s eyes. “Which is why you need someone with strength of will, who can help you better than I can.”

 

“Steven has found someone,” His mother continued, taking a long sip of tea. “Whom, he claims, has both the mind and eccentricity to parry your own.”

 

“Sure.” Ryan pursed his lips.

 

Steven stood up from the table and went to his satchel, which was resting conspicuously on the chair by the window. He recovered, almost immediately, a brown envelope and carried it back to the table. He sat down next to Ryan and passed it over to him. Ryan looked through the contents suspiciously, eyes resting on essays, and photos of a young man with an almost confoundingly hawkish nose on which he wore a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.

 

“He’s just returned from a trip, of sorts, to America. He is unemployed as of a few months ago.”  

Ryan was curious, despite his better judgement, and the fact that he was still bitter about all of this. “Unemployed from what?”

 

“He was in the War. And then he was a Professor of Physical Chemistry. And then he quit.” Steven explained.

 

“Why did he quit?” Ryan asked.

 

Steven shrugged. “I never asked Andrew.”

 

“Of course. This is Andrew’s doing.”

 

Steven shook his head. “No, Zachary introduced him to Andrew, and Andrew introduced him to me. And I’m introducing him to you.”

 

Ryan stared at the file again, going over everything one more time, trying to shift things in his mind. Find a good thing to focus on. “So when will I be seeing him?”

 

“Today, actually.” His mother interrupted. “So eat your soup before it gets cold.”

 

Ryan realized he had been holding the spoon in his hand, without drinking from it. With his mother’s words ringing in his ears, he dropped it into the bowl with a _clink!_ He rose, flustered from the table.

 

Steven went to fetch him while he was in the study, nose buried in _A Christmas Carol_ , his body draped across the top of his desk.

 

“It’s time to meet Shane.”

 

“Who?” Ryan looked up.

 

“Your new companion.” Steven smiled.

 

Ryan rolled his eyes, but he stood and grabbed his overcoat from the back of his chair. Let’s go meet him, before I revolt.”

 

The cobblestones shook the carriage up and down, exacerbating Ryan’s already twisting stomach. He clenched his book in his clammy hand. Steven looked worse off than he, pallor growing greener with each rise and fall of the carriage.

 

By God’s grace, the ride ended swiftly, outside, Ryan could hear the driver climbing down, but, preferring to get the foreign business over with, Ryan kicked open the door, nearly knocking down the driver standing behind it, with a startling exclamation of “Fuck!”. Ryan looked down in mortification at the man kneeling in the muck of the street.

 

“Sir!” Ryan stooped to help him up. “Please forgive me. I didn’t know-”

 

“Yes,” The driver coughed. “No. It’s fine. My fault, all my fault, Sire.”

 

“Christ,” Ryan pleaded, fishing in his pocket for his wallet. He sheepishly handed him a £10 note. “Take extra payment.”

 

The man gingerly took it from his hand, dusting himself off. “Thank you, Sire.”

 

The driver climbed back up onto the carriage, and with the snap of the reins, he was off. Leaving Ryan and Steven behind. Steven smiled shyly.

 

“Thought you might’ve run off.” Ryan spun on his heels and stomped into the pub. At that time of day in the work week, the bar was basically empty, the bartender looking incredibly disengaged. All seats were abandoned except for one, burdened by a man in a top-hat, hunched over a half-empty pitcher of beer. The man from the pictures.

 

 _Huh._ Ryan thought. _His nose is just as garish in person. His head is much bigger, though._

 

The man looked to the door, and their eyes met. Ryan could tell he was observing him, comparing him to his assumptions. His smug face, ended in a scraggly beard, and his mouth was curved into a smirk. Ryan had never felt something so close to pure rage in his life.

 

 _How dare he!_ Ryan thought. _How dare he do whatever the hell he is doing!_

 

Then, the man stood from his stool, his long limbs straightening out, his body taking it’s natural shape and height.

 

Ryan gulped, the hatred hadn’t gone away no, in fact it multiplied intensely.

 

_So this - this - asshole thinks that he can intimidate me because he’s tall!_

 

“Tall!” Ryan blurted.

 

The man seemed confused, taken aback. “Small.” He replied.

 

Ryan stood stock still, enraged, anger flooding his mouth, gluing his jaw together. Steven pushed past Ryan, sticking his hand out to the man.

“Hello. We’ve reviewed your work, and we think you’re perfect for the job.”

 

Ryan found it in himself to speak. “I don’t!”

 

Steven waved his free hand dismissively. “Don’t listen to him. He’s angry because his Mother and I conspired against him.”

 

“Damn right!”

 

The man laughed. “Conspired?”

 

Ryan would’ve liked to explain. Would’ve liked to divulge everything, how he was betrayed by two people he cared about, how he was being ruthlessly scrutinized, how his job was driving him to the edge of his sanity, because with every house he cleansed he felt more and more like a spirit, himself.

 

But then he would’ve felt quite foolish. So he clenched his jaw and diverted his eyes to the very top of the man’s hat. The man shrugged.

 

“I suppose not.” He turned his back to them, gesturing to the grimy table. “Shall we sit?”

 

Steven followed him to the table, reaching back to grab onto Ryan’s overcoat, and pull him forward when his knees stubbornly lock. He gently pushes Ryan onto a stool, unfortunately the stool closest to the lanky man.

 

“Perhaps,” Steven said. “We should start from the beginning?”

 

“That would be best.” The man said, with that smirk again. Ryan fought the urge to punch it right off of his face.

 

“I’m Steven. And that is Ryan. Ryan is a medium.” Steven said, with a smile like he’s pleased to have shared the news.

 

The man snorted. Ryan truly wanted to punch him. The man took a long sip of his beer, nearly draining the mug. The man smacked his lips with unnerving zeal, and slammed his mug down.

 

“So I’ve heard.” And he turned to look Ryan right in the eye. “It sounds far more ridiculous hearing it aloud. But what part of that is supposed to be beneficial for me?”

 

“You’ve expressed - uhm - _interest_ in the Supernatural.” Steven replied, digging through the envelope.

 

“Not interest. I’d just prefer to prove that they aren’t real. To put to bed any idle theories, antithetical to common sense. To slake the thirsts of the ignorant.” The man said, looking deeply into his eyes. Ryan felt a surge of spite.

 

“Ignorant?” He spluttered. “Spirits are real.”

 

“No,” The man shook his head. “They aren’t.”

 

“Yes. They are. I’ve seen them. I’ve spoken to them.”

 

“They’ve spat on him,” Steven chimed in, with a beer in his hand that had appeared out of nowhere. “They’ve bitten him too. And punched him. And kicked him. And-”

 

“Yes! All of that! And they are real!” Ryan found himself slamming his fist against the countertop.

 

“Have you procured a photo? Any kind of physical proof?” The man reached for the last of his beer, pursing his lips to gulp down the rest of it. “As I am a man of science, _that_ , I would love to see.”

 

Ryan huffed through his nostrils, nearly delirious with fury. He whipped off his overcoat, and unbuttoned his shirt.

 

“Ryan?” Steven gurgled, nervously, picking up his overcoat, like he was preparing to throw it over Ryan’s body. “What-”

 

“By God, man! What in fuck’s sake are you doing?”

 

“You want your proof?” Ryan stuck his arm out of his shirt, showing off a burn in the shape of a large palm to this outlandish man, and the bartender, and Steven. “Here’s your proof!”

 

The man observed his forearm, impressed momentarily, taking in the size of it. Then, he rolled his eyes. “That proves nothing, you _dolt_. Put your shirt back on.”

 

“Don’t call me - don’t tell me to -” Ryan spluttered. “This is proof! A spirit did this to me! A spirit who killed his own daughter, I’ll have you know. And I vanquished him.”

 

“Amazing.” The man yawned. “I’ll take the job.”

 

Ryan jolted, his arm hanging out of his shirt, feeling silly. That was truly all it took? The man looked conceited, but bored, he traced his finger along the rim of his mug.

 

“I’ll see for myself if these spirits are real or not.” He rose from his seat. “And if they are, then I’ve been proven wrong, and I will be quiet. But if they aren’t..”

He tutted. Then he stuck his hand out. “My name is Shane. Your name is Ryan. We will discuss salary the next time I see you, as I’m a bit too buzzed to negotiate properly.”

 

With a tipping of his hat, he strutted past Ryan and Steven and out onto the street.

 

Ryan was practically trembling with rage on his barstool, his knees pressed together, fists clenched.

 

_How fucking dare he! How fucking-_

 

“That- that bast-” He began, unable to speak properly. “He didn’t even- he just-”

 

“He didn’t even pay for his beer!” Steven finished for him. “Ryan, put your shirt back on.”

  
  
  
  
  



	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2nd chapter so now we in this bitch fr

Ryan awoke in a cold sweat, the dread settling in the pit of his stomach hadn’t subsided since it had come on during the carriage ride home from the pub. He was plagued by fitful nightmares of tall, impish woodland sprites, wearing top hats, dancing circles around him, holding Steven’s hand and dancing with him, too. His mother's cackling filling the horrid scene.

 

He stared up at the ceiling, hearing the puttering about of the staff around him. Someone rapped softly at his door. Ryan rolled over, facing the big window. Light leaked through the billowing, white drapes. Ryan screwed his eyes tightly shut, gritted his teeth and tried to quiet the screaming in his brain. Ryan knew it was dramatic, but he hoped that would be the day that he died at the hands of a vengeful spirit.

 

The knocking grew louder. And faster.

 

Ryan pulled his pillow over his head. “Go away!” He could still hear it, and with it, a voice hollering: “Ryan!”

 

“No!”

 

“It’s time for breakfast!” Steven yelled.

 

Before he could tell him to go away, Steven barged in, digging his cold fingers under Ryan’s pillow and poking at his face.

 

“Your mother is calling.” Steven said, lifting the pillow and pushing it to the side. “She said to tell you that she is unafraid to let you starve.”

 

Ryan groaned. He knew Steven wasn’t joking. He gave a final groan and rolled out of bed, stomping past Steven.

 

His mother was sitting patiently at the table, eating her breakfast of porridge. Ryan pulled back the chair and sat.

 

“Why are you still in your robe?” She asked him.

 

Ryan said nothing.

 

“It’s of no matter,” His mother sighed. “You are expected today. I’ve just received the telephone call.”

 

“Expected for what?” Ryan said, slowly.

 

“A job opportunity,” His mother said, watching him from across the table. “In Notting Hill. A woman claims that the brother-in-law of her wife is haunting their home.”

 

Ryan sighed, loudly. “And I suppose that means I shall be seeing to this case with my new companion.”

 

“You supposed correctly, Ryan.” His mother rested her spoon and latched her hands under her chin. “This is his first job, and I expect you to treat him kindly. I know that this isn’t ideal.”

 

Ryan scoffed. “Ask him to treat me kindy. Not humiliate me.”

 

“I highly doubt that he could.”

 

There was a knock at the door. The dining room was silent and Ryan’s mother stared at him expectantly.

 

“Your companion has arrived.”

 

Ryan huffed. “Steven! Answer the door! Please.”

 

“No!” His mother called back. “ _Ryan_ will answer it.”

 

He went, grumbling, but not daring to do so in earshot of his mother.

 

To his surprise, Shane was dressed far less garish then he was a week before, during their meeting at the pub. He was still overwhelmingly tall. He winked, and that annoyed Ryan far more than it should’ve.

 

Ryan reluctantly showed him into the house. Curiously, Shane refused when the maid asked him for his coat.

 

“I find myself unnaturally cold, at times. It’s really for the best that I leave it on.” He explained.

 

“Mr. Madej.” Ryan’s mother cut in.

 

With a swoop of his hand, he swept off his top hat (which was shorter than it was a week before) and he bowed to Ryan’s mother, extending his palm to kiss her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Bergara. I look forward to accompanying your son, and gaining insight into his strange world.”

 

His mother gave him a pleased once-over, to Ryan’s chagrin. “I trust that you will be able to keep up. Look after him properly.”

 

Ryan frowned. He did _not_ need looking after.

 

As if he could hear Ryan’s inner turmoil, Shane flashed him a look. His downturned eyes betrayed something Ryan could not place. Something, shockingly not evil.

 

Ryan looked away, face hot.

 

The carriage ride was bumpy and Ryan’s insides clenched as it tossed them from side to side. A particularly large bump threw Ryan to the ceiling. He let out a whimper, Shane was enviously still, watching him, unamused. It made Ryan want to bite him.

 

The carriage ride ended blissfully when they stopped at a beautiful black townhouse. It seemed to curve towards the sky, blacking out the sunlight. Ryan stood stiffly in the shadow of it. Shivering, he reached back into the carriage and grabbed his carpet bag. When he turned, Shane was at the landing in front of the door, hand poised to knock. Ryan quickly shut the door and followed him up the stairs.

 

The door swung open with vigor as soon as Shane knocked once, and a haggard woman with wayward strands of white hair pulled Shane through the doorway. Ryan froze, at first. Then he scurried inside, after.

 

“Oh, thank the heavens that you came on such late notice!” She said.

 

“He’s not-” Ryan said over the shouting. “I’m-”

 

Shane looked over his shoulder, eyes wide. _What the fuck?_ He mouthed.

 

She brought them to her parlor, where another white-haired woman was sitting at a dark brown table, looking forlornly out of the window, biting equally on her thumb and index fingernails. She looked so relieved to see that the two men had arrived, and threw herself at Shane.

 

Each piece of furniture was poised delicately on top of the one below it, stock-still in an impressive display of what could’ve been a circus act. But Ryan could tell by the feeling starting behind his eyes that it was not an act, but a restless spirit.

 

“Oh, stars above! You’re here! Please, you have to help us!” She pointed frantically to her wayward furniture. “He’s doing it! Herbert! He’s doing it! He won’t leave us be!”

 

Ryan started to speak, but was interrupted by Shane asking the very question that Ryan was about to ask, “When did this start?”

 

The first woman, whom Ryan knew to be Mrs. Beechworth, spoke up. “A fortnight ago. Oh, but it was only small things. Objects were out of place, jewelry. Things were missing from drawers. Doors would slam shut. Strange smells. And we heard his footsteps in his rooms. Stomping, pacing. And then, Lucille… well…”

 

Lucille was struggling to compose herself, when she said. “I saw- I saw- I saw him.”

 

“Last Friday,” The other _other_ Mrs. Beechworth explained. “Lucille couldn’t stay asleep, and went to the kitchen for some water. I heard her scream, I came running, and she was lying distraught on the floor. Saying that she had seen Herbert.”

 

“My brother!” Lucille, stood, hands planted on the brown table for support. Mrs. Beechworth went to her side. “I saw my brother. And he’s still here. And he won’t go!”

 

Mrs. Beechworth looked at Shane. “Please? Can you help us?”

 

“He is not Mr. Bergara!” Ryan shouted. “I am!”

 

There was a pregnant pause at the end of his sentence, and the two Mrs. Beechwoods stared at him in shock. He could even feel Shane looking at him. But Ryan was unshaken.

 

“Hello,” he jerked his hand out. “I am Ryan Bergara. I am here to help you cleanse your home of the spirit that is plaguing it.”

 

The more stoic Mrs. Beechworth extended her soft, pale hand to Ryan, which he shook. She looked to Shane. “Then wh-who are you, sir?”

 

Shane waved. “I’m Shane Madej. I’m accompanying Mr. Bergara on his...job.”

 

Ryan didn’t miss the way the end of his sentence hung, and did not appreciate it.

 

“My name is Verna,” The stoic Mrs.Beechworth said.

 

Verna gestured to a few rightside-up chairs on the other side of the table where Shane promptly sat, his long body seemed to deflate, and he watched the with a tightly veiled scrutiny. Ryan prayed that he wouldn’t ruin their job with his skeptical jabs.

 

Ryan took his seat beside Shane, resting his hands on the surface of the table.

 

“Now,” He said. “Tell me about Herbert. Please.” Ryan said gingerly. “What was he like when he was alive?”

 

Lucille swallowed, casting an unsure glance at her wife. “Well, Herbert was very curt. It was straight to the point with him. Intelligent, and he didn’t often like to let others forget that. Didn’t believe in the notion of God and the afterlife.”

 

At that, she started to weep. Ryan, who was accustomed to people crying when describing their deceased loved ones, had no idea what to do. So he sat there feeling very heavy, and out of sorts.

 

“He was angry at society, and he wasn’t the kindest person,” She sobbed. “But he surely didn’t deserve this. If only we’d known what would’ve happened, we could’ve done someth-some-something..”

 

Ryan shook his head. “There’s nothing you could have possibly done for him. When spirits are vengeful or lost, there’s nothing to keep them from staying behind. They are tethered to their old lives. People, sometimes objects, keep them from moving on.”

 

Beside him, Shane bristled. Ryan could practically feel the disbelief.

 

Before Ryan could say anything else, Shane raised a large hand, and gently began, “If you don’t mind my asking, how did your brother perish?”

 

“Last year, he was stopped by ruffians on his way home from work!” Lucille cried. “And I told him not to go! I begged him, I said that he wasn’t well enough for his age.”

 

Verna finished. “The police found him and brought his body home. He died in his bed.”

 

Beneath them, the table to started to rumble violently, candlestick shaking. The women gasped. So did Shane and Ryan. The walls started to creak, competing with the ringing in Ryan's ears.

 

“Where was his room?” Ryan asked, quickly.

 

“Up the stairs and at the very end of the hall.” Verna said, clutching Lucille’s hand to her chest.

 

Ryan hastily grabbed his bag, and Shane by his coat collar, as the table trembled violently, and picture frames rattled on the walls. “We have to go!”

 

Shane stood up from the table and followed after Ryan. They could hear Lucille wailing loudly, “Oh, Verna! Verna he’s here!”

 

The two men took off running down the hallway. The paintings shook on the walls, lamps flickering dangerously, the house was getting colder and hotter and colder and hotter, and all Ryan could hear was an incessant whining in his ear.

 

They came to the door of the bedroom, and Ryan could feel the power behind it, the energy, like sticking his hand into moving sand. He gently pushed open the door.

 

The room was handsome and small. Nothing looked as if it had been touched for years, bed made, books and tools orderly, a fine layer of dust had settled over everything in the room. Everything was ominously still, as if the entire house wasn’t shaking. Shane looked around, confused.

 

“He died a year ago?”

 

Ryan answered, “Yes.”

 

“And he’s back now?” Shane raised one eyebrow. “Not immediately after he died? I don’t know why I’m asking about anything from someone who believes that spirits and demons are real.”

 

The door slammed shut behind them. Ryan practically jumped out of his skin. The room was silent before Shane broke it with, “Just a heavy wind, Ryan. Honestly.”

 

“Of course.” Ryan said, voice dripping in sardonicism. He pointed to the The still, light curtains. “You’re absolutely right, Shane. A heavy wind.”

 

Shane huffed. He tugged on the doorknob. “Locked.”

 

“So it was certainly a heavy wind.” Ryan said, scathing wit giving way to anger. “Because the door is locked! Wind can lock doors, now.”

 

“Alright, Ryan!” Shane snapped. “It wasn’t wind! It was hardly spirits, though!”

 

At that moment, the windows burst open, thousands of glinting pieces of glass spilling out onto the table and the floor. Then, everything started shaking at once: every painting, every photo, every dust-covered book on the bookshelf.

 

Ryan gave Shane a cutting look. Even the spirits didn’t like Shane denying their presence.

 

“Could you please cease your doubt until we’ve solved our plight? _Please?”_

 

Shane rolled his eyes. “For your sake. Not for the sake of this… _spirit._ What shall we do?”

 

“We tell him to leave.”

 

“We tell him. To. Leave.” Shane repeated with a voice tinged with disgust. “And how do we do that?”

 

“I have to do it.” Ryan said. “And I just tell him to.”

 

“ _You_ have to do it?” Shane said. “And that is it? You simply tell him to-”

 

“Begone.” Ryan finished, waving his hand demonstratively.

 

Shane crossed, and then uncrossed his arms, staring at Ryan with interest. “Oh, I would quite like to see this.”

 

Shane crossed to Mr. Beechworth’s bed and sat down at the end.

 

Ryan frowned. “You shouldn’t sit there.”

 

“Why? Because Mr. Beechworth is lying behind me?” Shane mocked him.

 

“No, because Mr. Beechworth _won’t_ like it.”

 

Shane sighed and stood back up. “I am losing my intrigue by the second, Ryan.”

 

 _This isn’t supposed to be ‘intriguing!’_ Ryan wanted to snap. _You’re supposed to be helping me!_

 

But instead, he called out, “Mr. Beechworth!”

 

Shane snickered as Mr. Beechworth’s hazy figure appeared behind him.

 

“Is that all there is, Ryan?” Shane laughed and Ryan’s head was suddenly overcome by searing pain. “Is a simple _holler_ all that one needs to conduct a professional seancé?”

 

Ryan would have screamed, from both the intense pain and annoyance. Tears blurred his vision and his knees shook, but he held his ground, and gathered his wits. 

 

“Mr. Beechworth!” He shouted. “You are not welcome here!”

 

Mr. Beechworth gave an anguished groan and his already hazy figure trembled.

 

“Be gone!” He realized how ridiculous he must’ve looked to Shane, yelling at something that didn’t appear to him. “You are not welcome here! You have threatened the women of this household for far too long!”

 

The pain in Ryan’s head reached a crescendo as everything in Mr. Beechworth’s room shook and rattled, as Mr. Beechworth screamed and his body became mangled, and, like a clear sky after a storm, his form froze, the salt-and-pepper haze of him becoming whiter and clearer, until Ryan blinked and he had dissipated.

 

He found Shane staring at him with disbelief. “Oh, don’t stop on my account. Please. What was it you were saying about ‘being gone’?”

 

Ryan had to remind himself that Shane, possibly, couldn’t see what he could, before Ryan lunged at him and created another ghost in that house. His head was throbbing and his vision was spotting.

 

“I don’t know if- no- I think-” Ryan panted keeling over to regain balance.

 

Shane stared down at him. “God, man are you alright?”

 

Ryan tried to wave him away, but, upon the removal of one hand from his knee he found himself face down on the floor- and decided to simply stay there as his vision faded out, and so did the sound of Shane’s concerned voice.

 

He came to lying on a dead man’s bed, covered in sweat, Shane and the two Mrs. Beechworths staring down at him.

 

Ryan considered, for a moment, that if this was his afterlife, and Shane was there, he was, most certainly in hell.

 

“Are you alright?” Verna asked. “Can you speak?”

 

Ryan answered, his mouth feeling like it was full of cotton, “Yes, thank you.”

 

“Ryan,” Shane said. “You slept for two hours. I thought you might have perished.”

 

Ryan looked him in his big eyes. “You don’t look remotely close to grieving.”

 

Shane grimaced, looking genuinely embarrassed. “Pardon me.”

 

Ryan waved their faces out of his and sat up on the bed, _the dead man’s bed,_ he realized, throwing his legs over the side.

 

“We should go.” He panted. “It’s getting late.”

 

Suddenly, Lucille reached for him, clutching him close to her neck, which smelled of lavender.

 

“Thank you, so much, young man.” She sniffled. “You’ve healed this household.”

 

Ryan, despite the dizziness and the shock of being grabbed, felt his spirit warmed and lightened. He kissed her hand.

 

“More than happy to help.” He said, as he rose from the bed, beckoning to Shane, who tipped his hat at the woman and slipped through the open door.

 

Ryan tossed his carpet bag on the floor of the carriage and practically leapt inside. Never had he been so grateful for the rickety old thing.

 

Shane sat next to him, top hat in his lap. “Ryan, my apologies for not being more empathetic to-”

 

“Oh my God, it’s _over now._ ” Ryan said. “Just forget about it.”

 

Shane nodded, and solemnly looked out of the window into the somber essence of London and all her cobblestone streets. “If I may ask, where are we going? This doesn’t look like the way back to your home.”

 

“I asked Killian to take us to the nearest pub.” Ryan said, his voice clipped. “I’m far too tired to be my usual disagreeable self, so if you require acquiescence, now is an adequate time, I suppose. But I’m going to get drunk.”

 

“Alright.” Shane said, plainly. “I can understand the need.”

 

 _Oh, can you?_ Ryan thought.

 

They sat down next to one another, if he weren’t so burnt out, Ryan would be wary about the grime on the seats, but he sat anyway. He waved down the bartender.

 

“A pint for me and him, please. On me.”

 

He found Shane staring at him. “Thank you.”

 

Ryan shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

 

“The first day we met,” Shane began, and inwardly, Ryan cringed, wanting to be left alone. “I left without paying, highly inappropriate and I apologize. I will pay next time.”

 

Again, Ryan shrugged. “It doesn't matter to me.”

 

“But it does, to me,” Shane said. “Integrity draws the line between man and animal.”

 

“I suppose.” Ryan said, yawning. The bartender set their beers in front of them and he took a large gulp.

 

“So what was that, back there?” Shane said, and Ryan could sense a smirk on the horizon.

 

Blearily, Ryan said, “You saw. I communed with a lost spirit.”

 

“Yes,” Shane said, smirk fully blown. “I _saw._ But I don’t understand what you think happened.”

 

Ryan frowned. As he was speaking, Ryan felt energy crackle and vibrate in the air. He shuddered automatically, though it was probably the average pub ghost, a man who’d died in a bar fight, a prostitute maybe- those had to be the sadder ones. “It wasn’t- it isn’t simply what I _think_ happened. It _is_ what happened. That’s what spirits do.”

 

“Ryan, you shouted at an empty room, and then fainted.” Shane said, closing his eyes and taking a long sip of his beer.

 

“What appeared to you to be simply ‘shouting’ was deeply complex and spiritual.” Ryan said, clutching the warm vase of the glass and staring at a cloud of foam on the glassy brown surface. “It’s not something _you_ could do.”

 

“I’ll do it right now,” Shane giggled. “Watch me.”

 

Downing the rest of his beer, he unbuttoned his vest. Ryan watched he walked to the center of the crowded pub and loudly said, “Spirits! Begone!”

 

The tickle behind Ryan’s eyes grew, and then dissipated, as Shane rejoined him. The others in the pub seemed to barely care, but Ryan felt his face becoming hotter.

 

“That’s _not_ what I meant,” He seethed. “I have a gift, a unique ability to speak to the dead. Only few really can. If I was a fraud, they wouldn’t pay me.”

 

“I think,” Shane said, tapping the counter with his pointer finger. “That the people who call for you are easily excitable or bored, and become hungry for the comfort of dramatics. They refuse to rely on fact and science.”

 

Ryan coughed. “I would’ve thought you’d know better than to insult the son of your employer. And you say you have _sense_!”

 

Shane laughed, loudly, the corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly. “I say that I do. But sometimes I think that I forget. I’m human, and I suppose that means that I, too am easily excitable.”

 

“And bored.” Ryan said drunkenly, spotting something over Shane’s shoulder.

 

It was formless in shape, yet at the same time, it seemed to have hands and claws-

 

-and a horrible face. It had no color, and simultaneously, was black. It hung off of Shane like a shadow, barely seen by anyone, probably not even Shane. It was unlike any spirit he had seen before, and Ryan could suddenly feel something dark and bitter in the air and a wave of nausea overtook him. He trembled in his seat, saliva pooling in his mouth.

 

“Are you alright, Ryan?” Shane asked rising to his feet, the shadow following. “I think we should return to your home.”

 

“Yes,” Ryan murmured, his head starting to hurt. “Please.”

 

The Thing and Shane payed for their beers and The Thing and Shane helped him slide off of his barstool, but The Thing was gone when Shane helped him into the carriage and Ryan felt himself losing track of the thought of it, the more tired he became. As he slipped into rest, he couldn’t remember what he saw, but if it was important enough to remember, wouldn’t he…. wouldn’t he… would…..

 

He woke up in his own bed, Steven sitting at the end of it, reading a book.

 

“So, how was it?” Steven asked when he saw Ryan staring at him. “Was he too much?”

 

Ryan groaned and rolled over, pulling his blanket over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m in the process of making a playlist on 8-tracks (8-tracks so that it can have a cool cover bc I don’t have Spotify premium).
> 
> I hope you enjoy it and the fic, you little stink-O’s. (I say that with love).


	3. The Empty Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so i'm sure that the ones of you that care have probably noticed that i went back and changed some shit. i didn't want to, but i made so many mistakes because i'm a bitch that doesn't edit any thing, that this fic has turned into a living document (meaning that things are updated and changed). it's just miniscule things
> 
> i hope you keep reading.
> 
> i kind of forgot about the 8tracks thing, so until i do that, here's my spotify playlist link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6bGmHYLuYDdz3y1mIUDYb9

Ryan blinked awake. Immediately, the light assaulted his eyes, and his head gave a sympathetic throb. His every breath rattled his brain around his skull. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan caught the sight of an amorphous blob, sitting calmly in the chair beside his bed. Ryan strained his neck to make out who it was.

 

The shape flipped a page in the thick book that it was holding. In Shane’s deep voice, it said, “Good Morning, Ryan.”

 

“How long have I been asleep?”

 

Shane snapped his book shut. “The appropriate amount of time for someone who drank several pints of beer, and, if I’m correct, a glass of sherry.”

 

Ryan sat up in bed, the events of the previous evening coming back to him on a wave of nausea.

 

“Why are you in my room?” He rasped. “Is something wrong with me?”

 

Shane shook his head, “Your mother sent me to wake you.”

 

“And whatever could’ve stopped you? Because I seem to have awoken of my own volition?”

 

“I tried,” Shane insisted. “But you were practically in the arms of death. I had to check if you were breathing. I thought you would appreciate a gentle awakening.”

 

Ryan rubbed his face furiously as more of the nights events came back to him. He’d awoken from a drunken nap, saw Steven sitting at the end of his bed, and fallen back asleep before his head had even hit the pillow.

 

He sighed, and slid out of bed. The moment his feet touched the ground it seemed to move dangerously from under him. He stumbled to catch his footing, to no avail; he was falling slowly through the air, he felt Shane behind him, grounding him with the touch of a hand to his shoulder.

  
“Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine,” Ryan groaned. “I have to change.”

 

Shane gave him a look of grave concern. “Are you completely sure?”

 

“I’ll be fine without you, Shane.”

  
Shane gave a short, respectable nod, and promptly left Ryan’s room.

  
  


Without Shane behind him, Ryan stumbled backwards reflexively, into the chair, sitting on something hard. It was Shane’s voluminous book out from under his rear, and fell back. The ceiling of his room was swirling around like a great big soup. His hands were starting to sweat around the heavy cover of Shane’s heavy book. Ryan’s head fell limply toward his lap, and he blearily red the cover.

 

_Religions and Mythologies of Ancient Civilizations and Their Psychosocial Implications-_

 

Ryan quickly abandoned the cover.

 

He took a deep breath and stood up, every part of his body clenching at once to keep him balanced.

 

“Christ, help me,” Ryan groaned.

 

And perhaps it was Christ Himself, guiding Ryan with a firm and holy hand, but Ryan actually made it across his room, digging through his armoire for his clothing. He dressed himself with shaking hands, saliva gathering at the back of his throat. Against the odds of his body and the rapidly approaching nausea, he dressed himself, and snatched Shane’s book from the chair.

 

He had the urge to be nice to him, today. And a thought, maybe one from the Divine Himself, came to him, that it might be rewarding to let him play out his skeptic fantasies. Ryan knew who was right, and he was far too out of sorts to argue with Shane.

 

Hopefully, Shane was composed enough _not_ to ruin his day.

  
  


He was standing patiently in the hallway, when Ryan closed the door behind him, his long arms crossed over his chest. Ryan wordlessly offered him the book and Shane bowed his head.

  
  


They walked into the dining room, happening upon Steven who had his face tilted downward to a steaming bowl of porridge, and one hand scribbling devotedly in his special book.

 

The book was a display of the frantic and upbeat, yet impressive nature of Steven’s psyche. Filled to the brim with thoughts and poems, stories, photos, journal entries and sheet music, the journal was large and leather bound (like most). Everything that Steve cared about was plastered or written cavalierly on the pages. He called _it_ “an informal social investigation into yours, truly”, and _himself_ a “documentarian”.

 

Ryan thought it was beautiful. He’d tried to create his own book of special things, and realized that he didn’t really have anything special enough to place in a book, so he gave up.

 

“Good morning,” Steven said, without looking up. “Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine.” Ryan assured him.

 

“And you, Shane?” Steven asked.

 

Shane pulled out a chair and plunked down across from Steven, as the maid arrived, pushing the familiar serving cart, loaded with heavy silver plates.

 

“I’m feeling quite alright,” Shane said. He unfolded his napkin into his lap, and Ryan did the same.

 

The table was comfortably silent as the maid served them food, and then, the sound of hoofbeats approaching the house interrupted it. The three of them continued to eat.

 

Suddenly, there was a knock at Ryan’s door. All three men froze, hunched hungrily over their meals, it seemed that the entire room was silent again, this time, locked in an quiet that would never end. Then, whoever was at the door knocked once more, the proceeding knock far more harsh and anxious than the first one. Steven took another scoop of porridge into his mouth, the spoon bottom hitting his teeth.

 

“I answered last time,” Steven mumbled.

 

Ryan huffed, and threw the napkin onto the table. He crossed the floor to the front door. A haggard man was waiting on the other side, though he was respectably dressed, his clothing was crumpled, and his skin was sallow and glistening with sweat.

 

When he spoke, it was with a breathy stammer. “I need- I need your help!”

 

“Pardon me?” Ryan said, on edge.

 

“The medium!” The man panted. “I need the medium!”

 

Ryan looked frantically over his shoulder at Shane, who was standing up at the table. Their eyes met. Ryan pushed the door open, and swept his arm to allow the man to come inside.

 

The man shook his head, “We have to make haste.”

 

Ryan darted up the stairs, and began to search for his bag.

  
  


The carriage ride was the courtesy of the man at the door, Ryan and Shane learned that his name was Alfie Down, and that he was one of the many exhausted grandchildren of a spirit that would not leave his home behind.

 

“My grandfather was a kind man when he was alive.” Alfie explained, mopping his face with a handkerchief. “But in death, my siblings and I have found him to be quite ghastly.”

 

Ryan asked him, “What has happened?”

 

“What _hasn’t_ happened,” Alfie explained, his eyes wide glassy with fear. “Would be a far more suitable inquiry, Mr. Bergara. I’ve seen such horrible things.”

 

“Like what?” Ryan asked.

 

Alfie shook, and closed his eyes as if he was under a torture-like stress. “Paintings... flying freely through the air, landing far from their homes on the walls. Chairs and tables overturned in the dead of night. Dire messages written on the walls. Objects appear from thin air! These horrid acts are scaring my sisters half to death.”

 

Ryan nodded, sympathetically.

 

Up until that point, Shane hadn’t said a word, but he surprised Ryan by asking, “Have you called a priest?”

 

“Yes.” The man nodded. “And I was told to call Mr. Bergara.”

 

Ryan felt a bit smug, as Shane continued to look out of his window.

 

“You did the right thing.” Ryan assured him, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

  
  


The arrival at the house was marked by Alfie, tumbling out of the carriage, and running through the front door of a house made of dark brown stone.

 

Ryan stretched a hand across Shane’s chest to stop him from stepping out of the carriage.

 

“Don’t be skeptical,” He sighed. Ryan was deeply trying to have an amicable, and professional relationship with the man that his mother and Steven hired to help him, that was his job. But _this_ was Ryan’s job, something that was hard to do under constant scrutiny. “I know that is hard to ask of you.”

 

“I promise that I will try to ‘not be skeptical’,” Shane said. “However, something confounds me…”

 

“What?” Ryan queried.

 

“Isn’t it mostly old men?”

 

“What?!”

 

“The job,” Shane began to whisper. “Should I expect that the majority of spirits are old men? Because they, factually, die most often?”

 

“Why are you whispering?”

 

Shane parried. “Is it mostly old people?”

 

“Are you afraid of them?” Ryan asked, captivated by the thought that a bookish, and scientific man like Shane could be flustered by elderly men.

 

“Hardly,” Shane said. “I’m just curious.”

 

Which made Ryan think.

 

“It is.”

 

Shane looked at him, Ryan repeated. “It is mostly the elderly, and I never realized.”

 

Shane smirked, reaching for the door. “Now you do.”

  
  


The Down siblings were triplets, who claimed ownership of their house after the death of their grandparents, who raised them. Compared to Alfie, the two sisters were almost frightfully stoic.

 

“Hello,” One of the girls drawled, showing, Ryan and Shane through the door.

 

The parlour was open and neat, yet had the frigid and uptight air of a place that was barely used. Underneath the anxious ambience, Ryan felt the drone of energy in the distance.

 

“We don’t know what we did to upset him,” The other sister said.

 

Ryan shook his head. “I don’t think that it was your fault.”

 

The two girls cast simultaneous looks to Shane, as if they were confused at his presence.

 

Ryan cleared his throat, “Ladies, this is my companion, Shane.”  


Shane gave a gentle, sweeping bow. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance.”

 

At that moment, Ryan felt a shadowy presence climb up his back, like something ghastly and spectral being standing behind him.

 

“I think that he’s here.” Ryan informed the rest of them.

 

“What?” Shane whispered. The sisters fixed him with bored, yet impaling looks.

 

“He’s behind me.”

 

Shane shook his head. “There is nothing there, Ryan.”

 

As Shane said said that, the presence faded. Ryan frowned. “There _was._ ”

  
  


The girls led the men to a sparse bedroom, it’s runtiness further proven by the presence of an insignificant bed against the wall, mirroring a wooden desk.

 

“This is where we hear him, stomping around.” One sister, who’s name, Ryan learned, was Bette.

 

“It’s Pee-Poo’s bedroom, his favorite place. The other sister, Wilma said. “Such a shame.” Then the two of them left, slamming the door behind him.

 

Shane immediately sat on the bed, and it creaked under him. “Hmph.”

 

Ryan, for the limited amount of time he knew Shane, was familiar with that sound, and he felt his annoyance beginning to rise. “What?”

 

“Many, many things,” Shane had started to giggle.

 

Ryan started to wonder if he was one of them. “Which are?”

 

Ryan fidgeted on the bed, preparing himself to speak. “The triplets seem to have an unequal amount of concern for whether or not their grandfather is haunting the place.”

 

“Their ‘Pee-Poo’,” Ryan said reflexively.

 

“Right,” Shane said, barking out a surprised laugh. “Their _Pee-Poo_ ‘s spirit is still wandering their halls. And only one of them seems to be concerned by it.

 

“Otherwise,” Shane went on. “The room is morbidly ugly, so no wonder ‘Pee-Poo’ is throwing a fit.”

 

Ryan laughed suddenly, sounding, to his ears like the loud, sharp baying of a injured dog. It wasn’t nearly as funny as his laugh might’ve told anyone listening on the outside of the door.

 

He wailed, tears springing to his eyes. “Oh God, Shane! You can’t- you c-”

 

“What?” Shane grinned, the corners of his eyes creasing, “It’s true!”

 

Ryan, still cackling, plunked down onto the bed. It was like something had possessed him. “Shane!”

 

“The room is ugly!” Shane yelled over Ryan’s screaming laughter. “It’s empty and it’s ugly.”

 

At that moment, the door of Mr. Down’s bedroom angrily swung open, the both of them. Shane leapt to his feet. The dark hallway looked like the throat of a great dark beast, and out of the dark, stepped a hazy black and white figure. Energy crackled in the air, like the way one’s foot feels when it is suddenly resupplied of blood. It was filled with the feeling of sadness, of never ending mourning and gloom.

 

They glanced anxiously at each other. Ryan rose beside Shane, and they watched the ethereal figure slowly drew nearer to them.

 

“Can you see that?” Ryan whispered.

 

Shane didn’t answer. Which meant that he could.

 

“Are you Mr. Down?” Ryan asked, with a trembling voice. He could feel an instinctual shudder rippling down his back.

 

The figure reached for them with a flickering arm, fingers splayed out like he was trying to pull them in. The crackling in the room grew in intensity, as the figure grew closer, features becoming more defined. Ryan could see a beard, and sad black eyes under an immense, sagging forehead.

 

“Shane, I think that’s Mr. Down.”

 

Shane was breathing loudly beside him, so Ryan didn’t believe that he was listening to a word Ryan was saying.

 

The spirit came closer and closer, halting no more than a mere foot in front of them. He watched them with impassive eyes, without breathing, without moving anymore than his slight flicker, and no sound except a slight, painful groan.

 

“Are you Mr. Down-”

 

“Yes!” Mr. Down screamed, the terrible sound filling the room. Shane jerked nervously, his entire body swaying toward Ryan.

 

“Why are you here?” Ryan asked.

 

Mr. Down’s ghost howled, further startling Shane. “The room!”

 

“The room?” Ryan queried.

 

“It’s…” Mr. Down’s spirit panted.

 

“It’s…”

 

“It’s horrid!”

 

Ryan and Shane cast each other awed glances.

  
  
  


In the complementary carriage ride back home, Shane was quiet, a kind of silence that made Ryan uneasy.

 

“Let’s go to the pub,” Ryan said, leaning forward in his seat to rap on the window to the driver’s seat.

  
  


Shane didn’t drink any beer. He just sat with his face turned toward the grimy counter, forehead on the front of his hand. He looked more harrowed than Shane felt, after all, the case was straightforward; Mr. Down’s spirit left after an apology from his grandchildren for exchanging all of his beautiful furniture for party money, after his death. Ryan didn’t even pass out. In fact, he felt jubilant. Ryan hardly felt like drinking.

 

But he ordered one anyway.

 

“Well,” Ryan said. “You were right, Shane.”

 

Shane sniffed blearily. He looked up at Ryan with unfocused eyes. “About what?”

 

Ryan sipped his beer. “It was ugly. That was the whole reason Mr. Down’s stayed behind.”

 

“I know,” Shane mumbles. “I was there.”

 

“At least you were right about something, for the first time, since we’ve met.” Ryan bit.

 

Shane sat up straight, an impressed look in his eyes. “Oh, hoh! Someone is becoming quite spirited, I see.”

 

“Oh,” Ryan admonished, pointing at Shane's nose. “ _Yes!_ Because the spirit scared you! You couldn’t even speak!”

 

“Pish,” Shane said, but he was smiling widely. “You would like to see me distraught by what I’ve seen today, wouldn’t you?”

 

“Why aren’t you?” Ryan asked. “You obviously haven’t seen many spirits.”

 

“Shock,” Shane admitted. “I’m still reasoning through the ordeal.”

 

“Forget about it,” Ryan said. “There’s no scientific reasoning of this.”

 

“Maybe not scientific.” He waved his hand for the bartender, sitting up straight in his seat. He was preparing to say something supercilious, the signs of which Ryan could already perceive, but Ryan’s day had already been going well thus far. “But an explanation, nonetheless.”

 

“What is it?”

 

Shane laughed, and it sounded very nice. Ryan blamed the warmth in his face on the beer he had drank.

 

“I don’t know it yet, Ryan.” Shane confessed. “But I hope to find it, someday.”

  
  


They summoned a London taxi, and climbed into the backseat. Ryan’s mild jubilance hadn’t faded. Perhaps it was going to get easier to be cooperative with Shane, now that Ryan had converted him.

 

“Is this it?” Shane asked. “All you do is go from house to house and tell spirits to leave, or guide them to their ‘door’ to ‘move on’?”

 

“No.”

 

“What else, then?”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because this seems too easy.” Shane stretched his neck and loosened his tie. “Shouldn’t you be a local celebrity?”

 

“I kind of am.”

 

Shane stared at him. “Really? I must say, I hadn’t heard of you before.”

 

“Do you hang out with many figures from the spiritualist wave?” Ryan asked, combing his fingers through his hair.

 

“I can’t say that I do, Ryan.” Shane acknowledged.

 

“Then you never will.” Ryan said. “As long as you’re a skeptic, you will never hear of me.”

 

“I’m not a skeptic anymore.” Shane said. “But I’m still a man of academia and there are other things that I believe.”

 

“I can be academic.” Ryan bit.

 

“I think that your understanding of facts and evidence are a bit loose, compared to _my_ understanding of facts and evidence.”

 

“Oh, shut up.” Ryan said, thinking back to the morning, when he was holding Shane’s thick book in his hands. “Tell it to your bratty little science friends.”

 

“I don’t have ‘science friends’. I have colleagues in academia.” Shane declared.

 

Ryan frowned. “You have another job?”

 

“Yes.” Shane said. “I’m starting a position at the University of London, as an assistant for a professor. I could’ve sworn I told you that?”

 

Ryan had a vague memory of being told about Shane being unemployed. He asked him about it.

 

“I quit, because physical chemistry had no bearing on my life.”

 

The carriage came to a halt in front of Ryan’s house, and the two climbed out. They had been blessed with fortunate weather, that day, and the skies were clearing, allowing the sun to finally grace them with it’s presence. Ryan was beginning to get hot under his black vest, which he unbuttoned, combing through his hair again.

 

“What are you lecturing about, now?” Ryan asked.

 

Shane had been sweeping a hand down his face, and realized that Ryan had asked him a question mid-motion. “Excuse me? Oh. History.”

 

“Why?”

 

Shane looked like he was saying something that could never be understood. “Because it's interesting. So is your... hobby. You should come by the hall one day, at 3. You might hear something, interesting."

 

"Maybe I'll take you up on that," Ryan answered.

 

Shane watched Ryan walk into his house, his long coat slung over his arm, his glasses in his hand.

  


Steven was eating again, when Ryan came into the house, but he wiped his hands on his napkin, and followed Ryan to his bedroom, stopping as far as the doorway.

 

“So he didn’t kill you, like you thought that he would.” Steven said smugly.

 

“Worse,” Ryan said.

 

“What could be worse?”

 

“He made me laugh.”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel that i've done a bad job w/ characterization, do u? let me know ur thought in the comments.
> 
> also, sorry that steven seems weak, or not fleshed out, but ghosts are fucking terrifying, so his fear makes some sense to me


	4. The Black House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you believe a bitch pumped out a chapter in an entire day?? and it's not bad??

It was a Saturday and daylight drifted through Ryan’s window. He sat up in bed, threw his covers off, and stretched his arms above his head. He was hardly tired, and if he had no cases, he would have nothing to do for the day.

 

Maybe he could work on his journal. He kneeled on the floor, freeing a burlap sack from under his bed. His journal was in the bag, along with a few lose items that could stand to be fastened to the pages. He opened the journal and flipped through.

 

He hadn't known what he’d expected. Possibly for the journal to be full of all of his imaginary adventures, detailing a full and vibrant life. He was disappointed by the emptiness of the pages. On the first page was a picture of Steven and himself, he’d put that one in the center for the aesthetics. On the second page was a photo of himself and his parents, and on the third page was a crude drunk drawing of a spirit that Steven had done in a pub, and his own smeared drawing, which he’d promptly spilled beer on, right next to Steven’s. Underneath, he’d written, “The Bronwyn House Spirit”. It was the first call he’d ever taken Steven on, and Ryan had thought it would be enough for him to handle, but he’d had to take the next three calls alone after that.

 

He suddenly felt very selfish for the angry thoughts he’d had toward Steven for what he'd thought was abandoning him. He didn’t have the right to judge anybody for being afraid of something scary. 

 

Ryan picked up his journal, and the sack and carried it to the dining room. He laid out the book on the table, and started laying out the rest of his loose objects. Another drawing by Steven, and another photo of himself and his parents. 

 

He closed the book. As quickly as the urge to fill the journal had been, it faded away like a spirit. 

 

The clock at the end of the table read as 2:45. It was the well past the middle of the day, and he was still in his pajamas. He remembered Shane’s suggestion to visit his college.

 

“At 3,” Shane had said.

 

Ryan went to go get dressed.

  
  


The carriage ride wasn’t far, and Ryan spent the entirety of it twiddling his thumbs, and bouncing his leg up and down, until the ride ended, depositing him on the stones in front of the college.

 

As he walked, his dark thoughts and all of the catastrophes they described hit him with force.

 

_ What if Shane told his friends about me? What if someone recognizes me? What if I get stopped and they tell me to go back home because I’m not a student? Where am I supposed to go? _

 

He walked around aimlessly, until he came across a student with books stacked up to his chin.

 

“Excuse me,” He asked. “Where is Mr- Professor Madej’s classroom?”

 

The student stuck his leg out, and kicked it eastward. “Class has already started, mate. You might want to hurry. Would you like to borrow my book?”

 

Ryan shook his head. “I’m not a student. I’m just...a friend.”   
  


 

The classroom was teaming with young bodies, all leaning forwards in their seats, practically trying to absorb every word that Shane was saying, as he paced back in forth in front of the classroom. Ryan leaned against the doorway, and Shane glanced at him, right through him, it seemed. And continued his sentence like nothing mattered. He was hypnotizing to watch. He was the same, yet different. All of the self-confidence, yet none of the skepticism. At the front of the classroom, Shane was someone who knew what he was talking about, and seemed to love talking about it. 

 

Someone jostled Ryan awake. The students were filtering out of the classroom, doing their best to brush past him. He pushed the opposite way, moving into the class, towards Shane.

 

Shane was stacking his books, rearranging his desk, erasing the chalkboard, putting on his coat. Ryan watched all of it, wordlessly, until Shane turned to face him with his bag in his hand. Instead of trying to leave, he sat on the edge of his desk, and Ryan knew it was his turn to speak.

 

“You didn’t see me come in.” Ryan said to him. 

 

“I did,” Shane corrected. “But I didn’t let you distract me.”

 

Ryan nodded. “You have a lot of students.”

 

“I do.” Shane agreed. “People like history.”

 

“It’s interesting.” Ryan said. “Somewhat.”

 

“You didn’t hear any of it,” Shane smiled. “You were asleep.”

 

“I wasn’t!” Ryan protested, shaking his head. 

 

“With your eyes open.” Shane laughing. “I’ve seen it before. Hell, I’ve done it before. History isn’t for everyone.”

 

“It’s obviously for you,” Ryan said, ignoring the heat in his face. “You do very well. I can tell that they love learning from you.”

 

Shane’s smile stayed, but something in his eyes faded. “People tell me that. The students tell me that.”

 

There was something else, something contradicting that he was leaving off of the sentence. Ryan gulped. “And?”

 

“I sometimes have a hard time believing them.”

  
  
  


They shared a cab destined for both of their homes. Ryan had lived in England for quite some time, eight years, to be exact. There were parts of it he’d never seen before, despite it. The road to Shane’s flat, which was closer to the college than Ryan’s house, was one of them. The street seemed to be cast in complete darkness and no one moved around the carriages, like they did so frequently in London. They were halfway in the countryside, yet a single gas streetlight provided an element of the city.

 

A large house moved past Ryan’s window, far bigger, and blacker than any of the buildings around it. It’s very nature seemed to suck in light and destroy it. 

 

In a window in the house, a light came on, and a shadow entered the frame, unmoving.

 

“Who lives there?” Ryan asked. 

 

“No one,” Shane said, not even looking up from the book he’d pulled out of his bag. “It’s been abandoned for years.”

 

“Well, whoever turned that light on doesn’t know that.”

 

Shane looked past him, at the spec of light in the window of the house. “What the hell?”

Ryan worried his lip with his teeth as Shane’s breath washed against the side of his face, he had a feeling, and he hoped that Shane wouldn’t hate him for it. Simultaneously, he hated himself for caring what Shane thought.

 

Before he could speak, however, Shane leaned forward to slide open the driver’s window.

“Stop, please.” He said. “Leave us here, we can walk home.”

 

He got out of his side of the carriage, and Ryan fumbled with his wallet. As he opened the door, he realized that Shane knew exactly what he was thinking.

  
  
  


As they pushed past the rusted iron gates, the house grew in size, was much more terrifying up close. 

 

“Who else died here?” Ryan asked, eyes trained on the shadow in the window. At the same time, Shane asked, “Do you have your tools?”

 

“Who else died here?” Ryan repeated.

 

“A young woman and her brother, and an unrelated family.”

 

“The whole family?” Ryan said, staring at him. “Christ!”

 

“Before that, it was housing for the poor and the ill, so I imagine that this house has seen some ghastly tragedies.” 

 

Ryan looked back at the house, with the new and horrific knowledge still in his mind. 

 

The light in the window went out, and Shane walked ahead.   
  


 

Just past the heavy doors of the house was a wide hall, a set of stairs straight ahead, leading straight up into the black. Where whatever was waiting for them resided.

 

“Maybe there are no spirits here,” Ryan suggested hopefully.

 

“Probably not,” Shane said, already turning around. “I forgot how superstitious you are. Perhaps it’s just a squatter.”

 

At that moment, the doors swung shut behind them.

 

“Wind, Ryan.” Shane insisted. “Just the wind.”

 

Ryan ran to the door, tugging furiously on the handles. 

 

“That’s right, wind locks doors now. I would have completely forgotten, had you not reminded me.” He drawled.

 

Shane pushed him out of the way, and tried his turn at the handles. “What the hell?”

 

They were trapped inside of the house, with possibly hundreds of spirits that could be responsible.

 

“Do you see them?” Shane asked. “Can’t you see them?”

 

“They’re hiding.” 

 

“Great.” Shane said. “I’m not playing hide-and-seek with a ghost.”

 

“Neither am I,” Ryan said, stubbornly. “We’ll just have to wait here, for the ghost to show up, so we can go home.”

  
  


They waited for nearly an hour. Shane refused to sit on the ground, yet Ryan insisted he had seen dirtier. He had slept on dirtier. They tried, every few seconds, to open the door, to no avail.

 

“It’s probably night time outside.” Shane said. He couldn’t read his book in the dark, which Ryan was internally pleased about.

 

“We should go find them.” Ryan said. It was something he never thought he’d say calmly.

 

“The spirits?” Shane asked, as if there was anything else Ryan could be talking about. “Why?”

 

“Because if we find them, and cleanse the house, then we can get out.”

 

Though he was already standing up to join Ryan, Shane muttered. “We’re going to attempt to cleanse a house of hundreds of spirits.”

 

Ryan steeled himself, and together they walked up the filthy stairs. Immediately after the landing were hallways stretching to the east and the west.

 

“I’ll go to the-”

 

“No,” Ryan said. “We’ll go together. One by one.”

  
  


The first room was inhabited by the spirits of teenage girls sitting in a circle on the floor, their giggling voices flitting in and out of Ryan’s hearing.

 

“Move on, spirits,” He called, and they disappeared, and the house seemed to lighten a little bit.

 

“Someone should stay by the door to check it.” Shane suggested. “It has to be me.”

 

“Oh, it  _ has  _ to be you to stand by the door and leave me when you get scared, does it?”

 

Shane looked astounded, teetering on the brink of hurt. “I’m not going to leave you here, Ryan.”

 

“Yes, you would!” Ryan argued frantically, around them, spirits peaked their heads out of doorways, to watch the exchange. “You would leave me! Your home is close enough, that you would just run home.”

 

Shane gaped at him for a moment. Then, he reached out his hand, and offered Ryan his book. Ryan stared at the book, still seething. Perhaps he wanted Ryan to… touch it… possibly?

 

He ran his fingers over the cover, and Shane shook his head. “Take it.”

 

“What?”

 

“Take the book.” Shane said. He did it again, looking Ryan dead in his eyes, with a little smile on his face. “I would walk through fire to get any of my books back. You’ll have it up here, and that’s your insurance that I won’t leave you.”

 

“Because you wouldn’t leave without your book.” Ryan said, quietly.

 

“Because I wouldn’t leave without my book.” Shane walked backwards out of the room, each word punctuated by his steps. 

 

Ryan wasn’t sure if he was lying or not. If he was, Ryan was going to look like an idiot, walking into the city alone, with a book under his arm that didn’t belong to him. 

 

But he felt at peace.

 

He moved through the hallways, opening doors and calling to the assorted spirits inside, to leave.

He came to the end of the West Wing, swinging open the door at the end, where there was nothing inside, no one. He shut the door and turned around, coming face to face with an old woman of his height, lips black as the night, and hair long, white and matted.

 

They stared at one another, and she glided backwards to the East Wing, and she disappeared into the darkness.

 

“Ryan?” Shane called. “Was that it?”

 

Ryan said nothing, walking down the hall to the wing. He passed the landing of the stairs, where he could’ve easily peered down and seen Shane standing at the door, but he didn’t, following the spirit to the end, where he began the process of opening doors and clearing rooms.

 

He was doing this house a great service, and despite the eeriness of the woman who’d appeared, his heart felt warmed, slightly.

 

Soon, he was at the end of the wing, and as he pushed open the door, it groaned in agony. The room was empty. It was nighttime, Ryan could see that much through the hole in the ceiling, a hole that let in the glittering stars of the night sky.

 

In the dark corners of the ceiling were small, black shapes, and though they were hard to make out, Ryan knew exactly what they were. 

 

Bats. And he hated them. 

 

But the spirit stood in the corner, watching him with bloodlust in her eyes. She raised a wrinkly hand, and beckoned with one long finger. Ryan shook his head.

 

“Begone.” He said, his voice wavering. “Your reign over this house is over.”

 

She cackled loudly, and Ryan cringed, immediately looking up at the bats overhead. They didn’t move.

 

He spoke a bit louder. “I command you to leave this house, and move on!”

 

The spirit cackled louder.

 

“Move on! He said, and a bat freed itself from the ceiling and fluttered around the room, knocking into other bats, who knocked into other bats until they swarmed around his head in a small black storm. 

 

His voice wavered over the flapping of wings. “Move on! Go home!”

 

Suddenly, the walls erupted with a flurry of black bats, swarming angrily around Ryan’s face as he screamed in fear. His hands tightened around Shane’s book instinctively. 

 

When the bats cleared, a hand rested on his shoulder. His first thought was that it was the spirit. 

 

“Go home!” He shouted smacking the hand. 

 

“Ryan.” Shane said. “What happened?”

 

Ryan looked around the room, now that the bats had fled through the hole in the ceiling. “I…”

 

The spirit in the corner cackled heartily.

 

“Go home,” Ryan panted. 

 

The spirit evaporated into the air with a cruel cackle, all she wanted was to scare Ryan before she ascended to the afterlife. 

 

Shane helped Ryan rise. “What happened?”

 

“Bats.” Ryan said. “It was bats.”

 

“I saw.” Shane said. “Are you alright? Did they bite you?”

 

“No.” Ryan said. He casted a glance down to the look down at the book against his chest. He’d managed to work his fingers through the pages and crumpled some of them. He shakily handed it back. “I’m sorry. I messed your book up.”

 

“It’s fine,” Shane said, patting Ryan’s shoulder. “It’s just a book, Ryan.”

  
  
  


Shane adamantly refused to let him walk back into the city center by himself.

 

“I’ll take that cab that you take,” He insisted. “It’s alright.”

 

That was that.

  
  
  


“We did something very good today.” Shane said, leaning back in the seat. “We liberated the spirits living in that house, so someday, someone can inhabit it.”

 

Ryan knew it, but it sounded so good hearing it from him, and Ryan almost couldn’t stand it.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> leave me some facken comments


	5. The Hiding Child

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry!! didn't mean to keep you waiting i swear
> 
> follow my new fic tumblr: bonestonerust.tumblr.com ;-)

Ryan was prepared to leave, even before Shane knocked on his door, thus, when Shane crept into the parlor, he was greeted with grim Ryan’s staring absently out of a window.

 

“What’s wrong?” He asked, his mouth downturned in a confused moue.

 

“We have a case.” Ryan cheerlessly mumbled.

 

“Is that not a good thing?” Shane said. His eyes, beady as Ryan thought them to be, were filled with concern and befuddlement.

 

“Not this kind,” Ryan said, shaking his head sadly. He rose to his feet, snatching his carpetbag up from the floor. He marched past Shane, who for the first time in knowing him, scrambled to walk at a matching pace.

  
  


They arrived at the doorstep of a house shaded by the leaves of a massive oak tree. The house, closer to countryside, appeared to be stock-still with grief, waiting for solace of some cosmic kind. The gray paint and black finishes made the house look like it belonged in a photo.

 

“You didn’t talk the entire carriage ride,” Shane murmured, hovering so closely by Ryan’s elbow, that Ryan could feel his breath on the side of his head. “Please tell me what has you so distressed, Ryan.”

 

Ryan said nothing, he cast a melancholy look at the oak tree and gulped. 

 

“A child died, Shane.”

 

Startled, Shane asked. “What? Who?”

 

“Their daughter,” Ryan gave a pointed glance at the front door of the house. “That’s why we’ve been called here. To help her move on.” 

 

Shane said nothing, his mouth falling open and closed in astonishment. Ryan ignored him, marching to the front door, and knocking softly.

 

A child had died and Ryan was dutifully answering the call. Shane was glad he hadn’t started out the day with his usual jokes, or he would’ve felt entirely like an ass.

 

A man answered the door, jaw set in thinly concealed pain. He wordlessly guided them into the house. Ryan, who was far ahead of Shane, went first, and Shane furiously ambled to catch up.

 

The man showed them to his parlour, occupied solely by a woman clothed in the familiar black garments of mourning, sitting by a window. Face concealed by a veil, she stared at the window. Shane guessed that her gaze was empty, highly reminiscent of Ryan’s that morning.

 

“Hello, ma’am,” Ryan said meekly, his body quaking. “We- We’re- Your daughter is safe now.”

 

The woman wordlessly turned to face them, not bothering to rise or lift her veil. She seemed to aimlessly look them over, then she turned to face the window once more.

 

Ryan turned slowly, and left the room, wrapping his arm around Shane’s and tugging once. Shane followed Ryan, who followed the man up the stairs.

  
  
  


The room was haunting without the help of any alleged spirit. He led them to a large room painted off-white, the vast wall of which were decorated with a wall trim of circus clowns and birds. A child’s unmade bed rested against the west wall, a photograph of the child’s parents holding the blurry shape of what must’ve been the child as a baby was hung on the east.  Staring in quiet horror at the toys in the corner, and the predicted outfit laid out on the rocking chair by the window, filled Shane with nausea and despair. 

 

He’d hardly even noticed that he and Ryan were alone. The child’s father had left, hopefully to be with his wife. The door was shut fast behind him, and the eerie room surrounded them.

 

“What happened, Ryan?” Shane gulped, his body involuntarily curving toward Ryan’s. There was something about the room… “To the girl.”

 

At first, Ryan said nothing. His shoulders shook with each sobbing breath. “She fell out of the big tree.”

 

“In the front?” Shane asked in horror. “Christ.”

 

“She was their only daughter.” Ryan wiped his eyes and turned around. “I hate these ones. I wish children didn’t die.”

 

“Who would?” Ryan said, softly. “Everyone wishes that nothing would befall children, but tragedies happen everyday.”

 

Ryan shook his head. Shane didn’t consider the action to be out of disagreement, just the motions of a man stricken by dread. “Oh, God. I hope it was peaceful, I pray that she went quickly and that she’s at peace, and that she- and-”

 

Ryan had started to hiccup, burying his face in his hands. Shane pried them away.

 

“Let’s help her, shall we?” Shane said, fighting Ryan to keep his gaze, as Ryan was trying his damndest to turn away. “Let’s help little… what is her name?”

 

Ryan stopped struggling, though he didn’t say anything. “Esther.”

 

“Little Esther.” Shane said. “If what you’re saying is true, and she’s still drifting through these halls, we need to help her find her place of rest.”

 

Ryan stared at him in disbelief, tears shining under his eyes, like he couldn’t believe that Shane was taking something seriously. Each was seeing the other in a new light, one that neither of them would have expected.

 

Suddenly, Shane felt awkward. He dropped Ryan’s hands like they burned him. His cheeks burning, he muttered, “In what ways has the spirit been active?”

 

Ryan gulped, nervously trying to straighten his irreparably dishevelled clothing. He spoke in a hushed voice, and stared wildly around the room, like Esther would appear at any moment. “She’s been heard running through the halls, and playing with her toys. Her parents heard giggling and humming. They’ve felt her coming into their room to sleep in their bed, at night.”

 

“That sounds… odd.” Shane shrugged. Then, he quickly added, “But at least it isn't violent.”

 

“Well,” Ryan said sadly. “When her mother told her that she couldn’t throw things around the room anymore, she toppled a cabinet of china, and broke every dish. She threw her father across his bedroom, and she pushes, and she bites and she slaps.”

 

“Oh,” Shane replied, meekly. “That’s… erm…”

 

“Child spirits are especially vulnerable.” Ryan explained, as easily as if the spirit was an unruly child simply giving it’s parents a hard time. “They become volatile faster than adult spirits.”

 

“So,” Shane said. “Business as usual, then?”

 

“What?”

 

“You just twiddle your thumbs and holler at the ghost, and it’s over, right?” 

 

“Well, yes, but I don’t want to hurt her.” Ryan said, blushing.

 

“Wherever did the possibility of harming a spirit come from?” Shane said, shocked. “I thought you just hollered at them, and they left.”

 

“That’s if a spirit is violent.”

 

“This one is.”

 

“An  _ adult  _ spirit.” Ryan snapped frustratedly. “I don’t want to harm a volatile child spirit. Not when there’s a chance that we could save her.”

 

“Have you ever saved a child spirit before?” Shane asked.

 

Ryan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “No.”

  
  


They “set up” everything. “Setting up” describing Ryan’s frantic, arrangement, and rearrangement of tools that Shane had never seen him use before. It was clear that the man was stalling, trying to delay the inevitable appearance of the spirit.

 

When did Shane start thinking in terms of inevitability, in the context of something he was previously skeptical about? He’d quickly accepted the nature of these spirits as easily as he accepted oxygen into his lungs. It was so  _ unscientific _ , he thought with deep, aching frustration. He looked on at Ryan fidgeting awkwardly on the bed with indirect anger. What had this uptight little man done to him?   
  


At that moment, the two men heard a banging on the other side of the child’s bedroom walls. Ryan stood up, and though they weren’t previously speaking, the room became deathly silent. 

 

“What was that?” Shane frowned. “Was that the spirit?”

 

“Or the house settling.” Ryan said. It sounded rational and intelligent, something that Shane would’ve said if the universe hadn’t flipped on its axis.

 

“I’m not sure houses settle like that.” Shane said.

 

“Then it was the spirit. What does it matter to you? You don’t believe.” Ryan sulked, sitting back down on the end of the bed. 

 

“I believe,” Shane muttered, as quietly as possible. “I believe in spirits.”

 

Ryan heard him, nevertheless, and he jumped off of the bed, whipping around to face Shane. Shane expected him to laugh, to dance gleefully around him in circles. But he didn’t, he stared at Shane in awe, his eyes growing wider than they already were. His mouth fell open like he’d lost control of his jaw.

 

“Really?” He asked earnestly. “You do?”

 

Shane nodded, staring into his brown eyes. Ryan seemed to be waiting for something, if not from Shane, from the universe itself, which sounded so ridiculous and even less logical. 

 

In his peripheral, he spotted a pale figure. 

 

“Ryan,” he whispered, not looking away. “We have company. Slowly, turn your head.”

 

Ryan’s head whipped to the door.

 

“Alright,” Shane said, as Ryan ran out of the room, chasing after the spirit. 

 

He chased after him.

  
  
  


As Shane treaded softly through the hallway, head swerving from side to side, the hallway began to take shape, winding almost indefinitely. Shane hadn’t noticed it upon entry, the house concealed a multitude of rooms that probably had no purpose to an only child and her two parents. The doors were decorated with intricate carvings on their surfaces, each one different: a crest, a nature scene, an animal, a person, the house itself, a motto. Each door was ajar, as if someone had left with the intention of coming back to resume their business. 

 

Shane stopped. He felt like he was in a dream, being watched every step of the way.

 

It sent a chill down his spine. Ryan was nowhere to be found, and there were many rooms he could be in. He breathed and took a step back, the floorboards creaking under his feet. There was dust in the air, and it violently aggravated his nostrils.

 

He took another step back, and his shoulders hit something moving, as someone shrieked in his ear. He turned around, coming face to face with Ryan, who had a look of terror plastered to his face.

 

“Ryan!” Shane exclaimed. His heart was pounding in his chest. 

 

“Where the hell did you go?” Ryan asked, his shaking hand reaching out, clutching Shane’s shirt.

 

“The hallway, right here.” Shane said, gently placing his hand on top of Ryan’s. “I was looking for you.”

 

“I was looking for the spirit.”

 

“I’ll help you, then.”

 

They began to walk together, Ryan’s shoulder brushing against Shane’s arm with every quiet footfall. Shane wasn’t even sure that they knew what they were looking for. The walls were decorated with photos and paintings, of animals and scenes, and it did it’s best to combat the loneliness that the house cultivated. Three people with tens of rooms. So many toys, and no one in the rooms to play with them.

 

Shane had an idea.

 

“Ryan,” he whispered. Ryan didn’t answer, looking fearfully from side to side. “I know what she’s doing.”

 

Ryan giggled. The sound filled the hallway, contrasting with the ghastly, ugly quiet of the never ending hallway. “What are you talking about?”

 

“She’s playing hide-and-seek.”

 

Ryan stopped, looking completely serious now. “What?”

 

“She’s playing hide-and-seek. She’s manipulating the hallways- can spirits do that?”

 

“Do what?” 

 

“Change things in our surroundings, manipulate our minds and our surroundings to trick us.”

 

“Oh, yes.” Ryan nodded, looking around himself faster.

 

“Esther is manipulating the hallways to keep us here, so we have to find her.” Shane explained. 

 

At that moment, they heard a pounding on the walls, followed by a dry, squeaky voice. “Come find me.”

 

Ryan began to run toward the sound, but Shane reached his hand out to stop him. “We can turn this around to our favor.”

 

Ryan swayed dizzily as he tried to take in all of Shane’s words. “Turn  _ what _ around? What are you talking about?”

 

“She’s lonely, and she’s playing hide-and-seek with us.” Shane said. “And she wants us to find her. But she’s a child. She’ll play until the adults- until  _ we  _ \- tell her not to.”

 

“But she won’t let us stop her.” Ryan protested. “Her parents have tried to tell her to stop doing things and she has a fit.”

 

Shane thought rationally, weighing the objective truth of Ryan’s words. 

 

“Esther!” He shouted into the hallway.

 

He was met with a squeaky giggle. 

 

“You hide, and we’ll seek!” He continued. “But if we find you! You have to do what we tell you to!”

 

Esther appeared to him out of nowhere, her skin was pale, and around her flitted little black specs. She stared up at him through hollow black eyes. Beside him, Ryan stiffened, his hands practically finding their way into Shane’s pockets.

 

“Do we have a deal?” he asked. 

 

Esther giggled, gliding toward Ryan, she tugged on his sleeve. “What’s your name?”

 

Ryan panted, visibly breaking into a fear-based sweat. “Ryan.”

 

Shane didn’t see what she did then, but he felt Ryan’s relief, or slippage into a trance.

 

Esther reappeared in front of him. 

 

“You have to stay in the place that you choose,” Shane said. “Once you find a place to hide, no moving. That way it’s fair. Do we have a deal?”

 

Esther stuck out her hand.  Shane felt like he’d stuck his hand into boiling water, with no heat whatsoever. It was cold, but not sweaty.

 

“Deal.” Esther said, and she disappeared.

  
  
  


“We’ll go slowly,” Shane said to Ryan, who looked like a strong breeze could knock him right over. 

 

“What’s wrong with me?” Ryan asked. “I feel odd.”

 

“It was Esther’s doing.” Shane said. “We’ll go slowly so you can catch your breath. Lean on me, if you have to.”

 

Ryan nodded. “We’re playing hide-and-seek?”

 

“Yes.” Shane said patiently.

 

“And I’m hiding.”

 

Shane frowned. “No, Ryan.  _ Esther  _ is hiding.”

 

“And then it’s my turn?”

 

Shane sighed. “Christ.”

  
  


They went back to Esther’s room, doing their best to search for her there by rucking up her covers, opening her trunk, peering into her closet, and throwing back the curtains. 

 

“Not here,” Ryan confirmed, suddenly excited. “But we’ll find her, right Shane?”

 

He suddenly had all of the joy and the whimsy of a child. His eyes were wide and happy, and Shane knew what was happening.

 

“Yes, Ryan.” He said. “We’ll find her. Why don’t you go look in the next room, and I’ll find another one.”

 

Shane heard his footfalls echo through the hallway, and he moved to the room beside Esther’s.

 

There she was, standing “inconspicuously” behind the curtains, if “inconspicuous” meant very obvious, with her feet poking out 

 

“Where could Esther be?” Shane said aloud, moving slowly to the curtain. 

 

He ripped it back, and there was Esther herself, tiny, snowy white, huge eyes underlined by ghastly bags. 

 

“You found me,” She rasped. “You won.”

 

Shane crouched and spoke gently to her. “I found you, It’s time to move on, Esther. Your parents love you and they want the best for you. So, move on.”

 

Esther smiles, and her body shimmered and faded, just as Ryan barged into the room. 

 

“Is she gone?” He panted. 

 

Shane nodded, staring solemnly in the place where Esther used to be. 

 

“She’s gone.”

  
  


Ryan yawned the entire carriage ride, but didn’t close his eyes. 

 

“Can you get possessed?” Shane asked, out of the blue. “Can tell ghosts possess you?”

 

“Anyone can,” Ryan explained. “But it’s never happened to me.”

 

“Can’t say that you would still be saying that if you had seen yourself in there.”

 

“What?!” Ryan exclaimed, eyes wide. 

 

“Esther had you in the palm of her cold little hand,” Shane said simply.

 

Ryan stared in utter disbelief of his words. The look on his face told Shane that he’d never felt that happen ot him before.

 

“I don’t-”

 

Shane held up a hand to stop him before he said anything else. “It’s fine. She didn’t harm you, and it seemed to disappear when she did.”

 

Ryan blinked. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  
  


The carriage dropped Ryan off at home. He didn’t look back at Shane, just stumbled tiredly into his house. As the carriage took of again, Shane watched him go, and thought of Esther, and thought of Ryan’s tears of genuine sorrow, his kindness and generosity.

 

Then, he thought of himself and sunk deeper into his seat, closing his eyes against the white light of London's midday.

  
  
  
  



	6. The Premonition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know, i know! the prodigal son returns :-). i didn't forget about this fic, i've just been busy as hell! it was really hard to write this chapter because i was away for so long (but there's no one to blame but me, for that.)

In the dream, he was paralyzed. Lying on the cold hard kitchen floor- someone else’s - dust stirring with every breath he took. His chest was heavy with what felt like the weight of a great beast.

 

Something was coming.

 

He could hear the unmistakable footfalls of something big, and fast, and he could feel the vibration through his back and to his heart. 

 

Louder and louder and faster and faster they grew, until they were all around him.

 

Suddenly, he was pulled through the floor by his nightshirt, until he was standing upright in a dark, quiet room.

 

Through the ordeal, he couldn’t scream- could hardly breathe. The room was quiet, but he could feel something else’s presence. He felt the eyes of it, deep in the shadows of the room. 

 

Before he could speak, Shane appeared in front of him, tall and domineering as usual, yet something was unsettling about him. His eyes were dark, hollow, unfeeling, yet they stared deep down into him.

 

Ryan’s eyes started to droop shut in fear, his skin too terrified to even sweat.

 

They stared at each other in a moment of silence

  
  


Ryan jolted awake from his nightmare, shooting up from his bed. His heart pounded in his chest, and his throat was heavy with bile. He released the bedsheet from his fingers’ iron grip, as fading visions of dark shapes danced behind his eyes. 

 

And glimpses of-

 

Ryan cleared his throat, struggling to get his breathing under control. He stared around at his empty room. In the dark, the shadows casted by his chair and his wardrobe looked eerie and he shuddered. Gently, he lowered himself back to his bed and tried not to think about his nightmare, but the visions came with their cruel sense of irony. 

 

In the dream, he was paralyzed, lying on the kitchen floor- someone else’s kitchen floor. His chest was heavy with what felt like the weight of a great beast.

  
  


They stared at each other in a moment of silence, the static of something awful hovering in the air, even in a dream.

 

Quickly, as though it had always been so, Shanes mouth fell open, and a something started to come out from the pitch black of his throat cavity. They were long, black fingers, ending in sharp, gnarly claws. Shane’s mouth stretched and his body trembled, and he was screaming (or was it Ryan?) and the thing was reaching for Ryan, coming to snatch his soul, coming to drag him down to hell with all of it’s wretchedness.

 

Then he awoke, his shirt was plastered to his skin with sweat, and he couldn’t focus. Images of Shane danced behind his eyes. Grotesque. Terrifying.

 

He got out of bed, his legs shaking faintly. 

  
  


Steve obviously noticed. “Whatever is the matter with you Ryan? Has someone said something?” 

 

Ryan shook his head, sweat bursting violently through the pores in her head. 

 

“Is it something that I did?” Steven lowered his book.

 

Ryan shook his head harder. 

 

Steven smiled coyly. “Is it the spirits?”

 

“Please stop talking!” Ryan snapped, his throat getting thick with his emotions.

 

Steven casually lifted his book back up, and didn’t say another word while they were waiting for their client to come out of a conference with her husband.

 

Ryan had asked him for silence, but now that he had it, there was nothing to distract him from the feeling of his innards twisting itself into knots, like the writhing of a great and gruesome serpent. 

 

Besides his squirming stomach, Ryan’s day was shaping up to be awful. He felt sticky and reeked of sweat. Flashes of his nightmare appeared in his mind’s eye at inopportune moments- usually when he blinked He would see Shane over and over again, or The Thing Pretending to be Shane, and it’s cavern of a mouth falling open, black liquid spilling out.

Ryan wondered if it was a premonition. He got those, sometimes. Images of a fate that was yet to arrive. It was usually small things, visions of things that Steven or his mother would say later in the day. These instances were trivial, insignificant, able to be passed off as a moment of deja vu. But when they weren’t…

 

Ryan had once had a vision of his entire day, from start to finish, in clear detail. He couldn’t explain to Steven how he knew that we would burn himself on hot tea, or that a book would fall and hit his mother. The words died in his throat. The visions stayed burned into his brain.

 

Ryan felt bad for snapping at Steven. Steven was accustomed to it, but that hardly made it any better. Ryan was growing listless, at home, doing nothing. There had been no house calls for a week. Shane hadn’t called once, hadn’t visited. It was like he was vanished, without a trace, and with him, he took any traces of spirits. When the thought of visiting occured to Ryan, the shame of the idea followed close behind, immediately after. He didn’t need Shane. 

 

But he was so lonely.

 

He practically leaped for the phone when it rang, springing up from his seat, tossing his book to the floor. 

 

“Hello?” He tried to say calmly. “This is Ryan Bergara.”

 

A weak voice on the other end answered him. “This is Posie Bellflower. My house is being haunted.”

 

Ryan sighed. A part of him had hoped it was Shane, but this would do the trick to cure him of his boredom. “I can help with that.”

  
  


Steven stared at him when he sat back down in his seat. “Who was that?”

 

“A job.”

 

“What about Shane?”

 

Ryan thought deeply. “Let’s get the carriage.”

  
  


He humbled himself before knocking on Shane’s door, shuffling from foot to foot as he listened to the sound of scuffling on the other side. 

 

When Shane opened the door, he gave a confused, yet pleased look at Ryan that calmed his heart.

 

“What happened?”

 

Ryan opened his mouth to speak, which is when his gaze drifted over Shane’s shoulder, at the black, formless figure hovering.  The feeling of heaviness, and nausea returned, with it came dread, the sour heavy feeling that something was going to happen, that he was cursed, that he was going to die, that that thing would hurt Shane, or him.

 

“We have a job.” Ryan said. “If you’d like to accompany me.”

 

Shane’s hawkish face broke into a big smile. “I would love to! Let me get my coat.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks babies!! i promise i'll keep writing this until the whole series (wink wink) is finished.

**Author's Note:**

> hoh boy.


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